came back too soon. I said things madly--things I did not mean. He went
again. And then afterward I knew that I loved him."

"I am glad of that, upon my soul!" said Telford, letting go a long breath.

She smiled strangely and with a kind of hardness. "A few days ago I had
determined to find him if I could, and to that end I intended to ask a man
who had proved himself a friend, to learn, if possible, where he was in
America. I came here to see him and my daughter."

"Who is the man?"

"Mr. George Hagar."

A strange light shot from Telford's eyes. "Hagar is a fortunate man," he
said. Then dreamily: "You have a daughter. I wish to God that--that ours
had lived."

"You did not seem to care when I wrote and told you that she was dead."

"I do not think that I cared then. Besides"--

"Besides you loved that other woman, and my child was nothing to you," she
said with low scorn. "I have seen her in London. I am glad--glad that she
hates you. I know she does," she added. "She would never forgive you. She
was too good for you, and you ruined her life."

He was very quiet and spoke in a clear, meditative voice. "You are right.
I think she hates me. But you are wrong, too, for she has forgiven me."